


Sing that Silly Song (It's a New World)

by ladyoflosgar



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Crack, Crack, Diverges at Robert's Rebellion, F/M, Fluff, Happy Sansa Stark, Lysa Tully/Happiness, Lysa marries Elbert and has seven kids and she has a nice life, Sansa and Arya improve their sisterly relationship, happy Stark family, ummm Ormond Baratheon is actually Gendry but I can name him Ormond if I want
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-13
Updated: 2020-04-27
Packaged: 2021-02-26 04:08:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 12,587
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21777301
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ladyoflosgar/pseuds/ladyoflosgar
Summary: Sansa begs Ned to make the singers stay forever. Thankfully, the Dreadfort is just next door, and Roose Bolton's son is an acclaimed musician. Some Domeric/Sansa light fluff which spiralled out of control.
Relationships: Domeric Bolton/Sansa Stark
Comments: 20
Kudos: 98





	1. Winterfell watches a meet cute

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Spectre4hire](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Spectre4hire/gifts).



Ned Stark groaned as he glanced at the high pile of parchments on the desk in his solar. _Letters, ledgers, and more letters and ledgers. I get back from hearing petitions only to read them some more, and then look at little numbers telling me which requests I cannot grant._

Such was the life of a lord.

The top of the pile of scrolls was sealed with the pink wax of the Dreadfort. _What does Roose Bolton want?_ The man hardly ever wrote. He had his lands well in hand.

_Lord Stark,_

_My son Domeric is traveling to the Rillseat to attend a feast for Lord Rodrik’s seventieth name-day. I hope he will be welcome at Winterfell after he leaves White Harbor. I would not presume to impose him upon your hospitality._

_Cordial regards,_

_Roose Bolton, Lord of the Dreadfort_

That was an easy request. Ned dipped his quill in the inkwell.

_Lord Bolton, of course your son is welcome at Winterfell. I will notify my steward._

_Eddard Stark, Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North._

Into the pile for Maester Luwin.

The next scroll bore the sky-blue moon and falcon of House Arryn. _Jon, yes, I will open that one next._ A letter for Jon meant something other than a request for coin for some lord’s pet project, a betrothal offer, or pleas for more men from the Wall. He broke the seal and started to read.

_Ned,_

_I hope you are well. I trust Cat has told you of the birth of Lysa and Elbert’s seventh child by now? If not, there it is. They named him Artys and he is such a joy. He has red hair, like your boys. We held a feast to celebrate and all the lords of the Vale came. Redfort’s former squire, the Bolton boy, he sang and played the harp better than any of the musicians in my pay. Near as good as His Grace, I say. He even made Anya Waynwood cry. Can you imagine that? Now he’s knighted and leaving us to go freeze his fingers off with you Northmen, the Vale will have to cover its ears. I wish you, Cat, and your family could have been there. Perhaps for Prince Aemon and Aemma’s wedding we might see each other next._

_I digress, Ned, for singers and births are not the reason for my writing to you. Your foster brother has refused my latest offer to raise his youngest son at the Eyrie. Ned, this is not the Robert I once called my son. His letters are short and bear no trace of the laughing storm come anew. I fear that this can no longer be blamed on the demands of ruling or the cruelty of distance. This has always been a true falling out. It pains an old man’s heart. Ned, I fear I am not long for this world. Help me mend things with Robert, Ned. I want a clear soul before I die._

_Jon Arryn, Lord of the Eyrie and Warden of the East_

The rest of the pile of parchments could wait. _Jon, not long for this world?_ The thought shook him. _We will see each other soon._ That business with Robert though – he did not know how any of that was to be mended. Robert and Cersei had refused all offers to foster any of their children at Winterfell, choosing instead to send them to the Rock with Lord Tywin, or to Stannis and Lady Janna at New Summerhall. They had also refused Ned’s offer for Sansa for young Ormond, to make things right. Cat had suggested offering Arya when her temperament had become apparent, but Ned had refused. _That will only make things worse._

Some wounds time was failing to heal.

He dipped his quill again. _Jon…_

///

“Father, please. Must he go? Must the bard truly go? Can’t you make him stay? You’re the Lord of Winterfell. You could take him on… His Grace and Aunt Lya have singers… It’s been so quiet here…”

His eldest daughter had tears in her eyes. It hurt Ned’s heart to see them.

“Sansa, my sweet. The man has played us every song he knows thrice over,” he told her gently. “I cannot keep him here against his will. You need not weep, though. I promise you, other singers will come.” Then he remembered. “One shall be coming soon, in fact. In a fortnight. Do you remember Lord Bolton?” Sansa nodded her head. “His son will be stopping here on his way to the Rills. He will be staying for a week, and he sings and he plays the harp. Your uncle Jon praised him in a letter that I received just this morning. Would that please you, my dear?”

Sansa dried her widening eyes. She nodded vigorously broke out into a bright smile. “Yes, Father.”

“There’s my girl. See, the singers always come. They always leave, but they’ll always come.”

///

Ned clapped Domeric Bolton on the back after he bid him to rise.

“Congratulations on your knighthood, good ser.” Hodor came forward to see to the young knight’s fine red courser. _I must write Lord Ryswell and ask for one of those. It would make Arya happy._

“Thank you, my lord.” Domeric moved onto Cat and kissed her hand. “Lady Stark.”

Ned watched Domeric shake Robb’s hand and greet Bran and Rickon. Then Domeric reached Sansa, whose face resembled a pomegranate as she held her hand out for a kiss. _I should not have told her he is a singer. Now she will never leave him alone._

“My lady, I am enchanted.” The boy was taking far too long to greet Ned’s eldest daughter. Ned cleared his throat, and with a flustered expression, young Bolton moved on to greet Arya. _I will need to speak to Septa Mordane about this._

///

“Ser Domeric, will you be staying at the Dreadfort now that you have been knighted? Or will you be returning to the Vale?” Ned looked on as Cat played the gracious hostess.

“I will be staying. My father has agreed to build a permanent tiltyard, but he has tasked me with overseeing the project.”

“There will be tourneys at the Dreadfort?” True to form, Sansa had not torn her eyes away from their guest once the entire evening.

“Aye, my lady. And one before the year is out.” The boy broke into a gleaming white smile. _How very unlike his father._ From the way her spoon was shaking, Sansa was clearly trembling in excitement. “Lady Cerenna is with child. Father says I will have a sibling soon. A little lion of Bolton.” Young Domeric took a swig of his ale. “We will host a tourney a for the babe’s birth. A small one, long enough before the royal wedding that the riders can attend both.”

“How wonderful!”

“Aye, my lady. I am most excited. Not just for the tourney, but for a brother. Or a sister. I love my Dustin and Ryswell cousins, but cousins are not the same. I will be most pleased to have a trueborn sibling of my own.” The boy scanned the table and turned back to Sansa and Cat. “You will be attending?”

“I see no reason why we will not,” Cat said, beaming. “How grand that more tourneys are coming to the North. That the Seven Kingdoms are truly coming together, and the North especially. All thanks to our King and Queen.” She raised her goblet. “To King Rhaegar and Queen Lyanna!”

“To King Rhaegar and Queen Lyanna!”

After the toast, Sansa asked the question Ned had known was coming all night. “Ser, it is said you are an accomplished musician?”

Ned thought that Domeric’s earlier smile was bright, but to see him smiling now was like seeing the springtime sun after being trapped among the torches in the winter. He bit his lower lip and his eyes flashed. _I know that look and I mislike it._ “I sing some,” he said. “I play the harp.”

“Would you – ” but Sansa never got to finish her question, because young Domeric had already ducked under the table. He came back up with a high harp.

“It would be my pleasure to sing for you, my lady.”

 _We will never leave this table._ Ned called for another tankard of ale.

///

The tourney sword flew out of Robb’s hand and landed in the grass.

“I yield,” he said for the third time that morning. _How embarrassing._

It was bad enough when cousin Jasper beat him soundly after Uncle Edmure’s wedding. “No one can beat the knights of the Vale!” Jasper had shouted after elbowing Robb in the ribs. But this was almost worse. Jasper was family, and Robb could get exasperated with him. He could even punch Jasper if he wanted to. And he had. And it had felt good. Domeric Bolton was a guest, and each time he offered Robb a hand and politely pointed out how to improve his form, or explained what sort of feint he had used, Robb couldn’t even want to punch him. And somehow that was worse.

“It’s your reach,” Ser Domeric said. “Not your fault. I’m taller, I have the natural advantage. But that means that …” Then the heir to the Dreadfort went on a long-winded explanation of centers of gravity and blind spots, things that Robb had already bloody known, thank you very much, so he just smiled and nodded.

“We’re done, I think,” Robb said, eyeing one of the walls. _Shit, that’s Bran. Mother won’t like that._ “I’m sorry, that’s my brother, I have to make him get down before he hurts himself – ”

But Domeric Bolton just stalked over to where Bran was climbing with a hasty “Of-course-Lord-Robb-thank-you-for the match”. And then without even taking off his training armor or returning his tourney sword, he started to climb the wall himself.

Robb looked at Ser Rodrik, whose mouth was agape in similar confusion.

“Robb.” It was Father, striding forward from the Great Keep.

“Father.” They were both watching Domeric Bolton and Bran have some sort of conversation high on the wall. It was a queer image, Bran in his tunic and breeches and Domeric in his dull training armor, both their arses out and arms spread at odd angles.

“I have a request for you.”

“I am at your service, Father.”

“You do not know what I ask.”

“I do not need to.”

Father sighed. “Ser Bolton has asked my permission to take Sansa riding in the Wolfswood this afternoon. I have granted it. But Septa Mordane has taken a chill and cannot serve as a chaperone. I would like a set of eyes on him beyond just a few guards. Would you be willing to go with them?”

 _Spend more time with Domeric Bolton? Let me count the things I would rather do._ “Like I said, Father, I am at your service.”

Father clapped him on the shoulder. “Thank you, Robb.”

“I will be bringing Theon.”

“Better for it.”

“Aye.”

Domeric Bolton and Bran had finished their descent from the walls and were approaching Robb and his father. Bran’s eyes were shining with what could only be excitement. The spring in his step obvious, Bran practically leapt the last few paces to the space in front of Father’s feet.

“Father! Father! Ser Domeric says that knights can climb! On walls and cliffs! In armor! To rescue maidens from the mountain clans! Or to storm castles! Father! May I go squire for Uncle Elbert? Or cousin Jasper? Please? Father, I want to be a knight of the Vale – ”

_Bugger cousin Jasper and the bloody knights of the Vale. Not them again. Bugger Domeric Bolton too._

///

“You’re not really watching them.”

“I didn’t plan on it. It’s why I brought you. Came for a nice ride.”

“Didn’t Lord Stark ask you to be here?”

“He did. They won’t do anything.”

“Are you sure? It’s dark in these woods, and you know what they say about Boltons, and girls, and trees – ”

“You’re delusional if you think that will happen. Did you hear him talk? He’s a stick up his arse. And he’s not stupid. He wouldn’t tumble a highborn lady. Not his liege lord’s daughter. Doesn’t seem the type. Besides, he has as many of those songs and poems and stories between his ears as Sansa does. She’ll be his lady fair, aye, his lady love, and he’ll burn in sweet agony, and he’ll never touch her for fear of sullying her peerless virtue.” Robb wrinkled his nose. “And it’s Sansa. You know Sansa. She’s like Mother, she would never – ”

“You’re the delusional one. Did you see how she looked at him at supper? She all but handed him the keys to the castle.” Theon sniggered. “I should take up the harp.”

“Careful, Greyjoy. That’s my lady sister you’re talking about. Bolton I trust not to do anything, but you – ”

“Look, Stark, you’re not paying attention. They’re off the horses now, aye? Having a right little picnic with a blanket and a basket and everything. Come on now, _watch_ like your father told you to. Six coppers he kisses her. Ten he cops a feel.”

“I’ll take it.” Robb watched Domeric Bolton unpack sweetmeats and pastries from the basket. “I’ll raise you. Twenty coppers they end up betrothed. Eventually.”

“Eventually? No deadline?” Theon’s horse pawed the ground. “Low stakes.”

“Aye, low stakes. It’s an easy win. Wouldn’t want to rob you.” Robb puffed his cheeks and blew out air. “At least this betrothal seems… ah… perfect. They’ll be happy.”

“Perfect? Aren’t you happy with the Karstark girl? What’s the matter with her? A bit skinny, but nothing wrong with her looks.”

“Aye, nothing wrong with her looks. It’s… I don’t know. Her personality. It’s plain. Or, no, that’s not fair. The ways our personalities interact. Like it was… Expected. All business. I work for her, she works for me. It works. But it’s not, ah, grand, aye? No drama. Bolton here, it’s like he and Sansa saw each other once, and then… and then… a wizard or somesuch cast a spell, and then Bolton played the harp, and now Sansa’s swooning. You know. A nice story. Father and Mother, they have a nice story. She was supposed to marry Uncle Brandon, who didn’t love her, but she found love in Father instead. Alys and me, there’s no nice story. It’s just… boring. An exchange.”

“You want that magic stuff? The nice story? Didn’t take you for the type, Stark.”

“I don’t know, Greyjoy. It would be nice.”

“What would your nice story be?”

Robb thought a moment. “I storm a castle. The girl is there. She yields it up to me. Now she’s my prisoner. My hostage. But I treat her well, and she treats me well. Then one day she comes to my chambers where I’m planning a war or somesuch, and… you know.”

Theon smirked. “I know.”

“Or… or… I’m fighting a war, and I take a wound, and she stitches me up, and I look up at her, and then the magic happens. And then when I’m back in fighting shape, I win the war, and I take her back with me. I don’t let her go. Magic, aye?”

“Aye. _Magic_.” Theon scoffed. “Magic’s for your salt wives, aye? Your rock wife’s for heirs and swords.”

“Not for everyone.” Robb narrowed his eyes. “Is he feeding her lemon cakes with his fingers?”

“By the gods, he is!” Theon’s mouth was open in disbelief. “Right bold, that is. He’s known her for what, two days? That… That… you see at weddings, or at whorehouses, but under the open sky…”

“Would you say Bolton is taking a liberty?”

“I would.”

“Would you say it’s like kissing?”

“I would.”

“Would you say it’s like copping a feel?”

“No.”

“Do I owe you six coppers?”

Theon looked pensive for a moment. Bolton was dabbing at the corners of Sansa’s mouth with a napkin. “No.”

“Should I stop this?”

“No. Let’s just watch some more. I’m going to win those sixteen coppers true and fair.”

A few moments passed. “Shit, are they kissing?”

“They are. Nothing too much though.” Theon stood up in the saddle. “Ah, did Sansa just – ”

Robb could not believe his eyes. Sansa, climbing into a man’s lap? “All right, too far, this stops now – ” Robb put two fingers in his mouth and gave a loud whistle. Grey Wind and Lady bounded out of the Wolfswood and started barking. Domeric and Sansa broke apart.

Theon gave a loud guffaw. “You owe me sixteen coppers.”

///

There was laughter echoing through the corridors of the Great Keep. A little boy’s laughter, and the pitter-patter of a little boy’s footsteps. _Rickon._ Cat needed to stop him before he broke something old and priceless.

As the noise grew louder, Cat heard a high-pitched shriek and the baritone rumble of a man grown’s laughter. Then Rickon’s voice again. “I’m a dragon! I’m a dragon!”

_The poor guard. I must tell Rickon to stop this nonsense and slip the guard an extra silver for his trouble._

Cat rounded the corner, closed her eyes, rubbed her temples, and cleared her throat. The laughter stopped.

“Lady Stark – ”

That wasn’t the voice of a guard. Cat opened her eyes. As she expected, Rickon was perched atop a man’s shoulders. What she had not expected was that the man in question was her guest, Ser Domeric Bolton.

The Bolton boy scrambled to put Rickon back onto solid ground. “My lady, I’m sorry, we were just playing, I meant no harm – ”

“No harm was done,” Cat said, a smile blooming on her face. Her youngest son rushed over to wrap himself in her skirts. “You were just practicing. For your new brother or sister.”

“Aye, my lady,” Ser Domeric said shakily. “That I was.” The poor boy was slowly turning pink as a Bolton banner. “By your leave, my lady.”

“Of course, ser.” Cat watched the heir to the Dreadfort disappear into the castle. _Such a nice boy._

Perhaps Rickon would not need a scolding today after all.

///

Cat twirled a lazy finger in one of the curls of hair growing from her husband’s chest. She could feel his pulse under the warm skin of his hard abdomen, where she had lain her cheek.

“Ned?”

“Aye?”

“I love you, Ned.”

Her husband chuckled. “I love you too, Cat.” He flexed his legs and she felt his knees dig into her lower belly.

“Oof!” Cat winced and rolled onto the furs.

“Cat?”

“Ned?”

“Should we send Bran to the Vale?”

“To the Vale? Why?”

“He asked me today. To squire for Jasper or Elbert. What do you think?”

“Elbert and Lysa have enough children to deal with. Why not Brynden?”

“He’s a bit young to be the Knight of the Gate’s squire. ‘Twould be safer for him to start out as Jasper’s. Jasper’s at that age.”

“Robb is Jasper’s age, and he doesn’t have a squire.”

“Robb is not a knight.”

Cat sighed. “Where did Bran get this idea? To go off to the Vale? I thought we’d agreed on sending him to Edmure.”

“The Bolton boy.”

“I see.” Cat wiggled her toes. “What do you think of him, Ned?”

“Respectful. Courteous. Quiet at first, but talks enough once you engage him. I wouldn’t know, but Willam says he’s the finest lance he’s ever seen. The makings of a tourney champion.”

“Willam likes to exaggerate.” Cat dragged a toe across Ned’s shin. “He is a fine young man. I saw him playing with Rickon. I like his singing.”

“Not as much as Sansa does.” Ned rubbed his shin against hers, the hairs on his legs giving a pleasant scratch to her skin.

“No. Not as much indeed.” She turned her head on its side to look Ned head on, nose to nose. “Ned – do you think – ”

“Aye. I’m half expecting a visit to my solar before the week is out. Or a bird from Roose. He took her out riding today. I had Robb serve as chaperone. He was very doting, as Robb tells it. Gentle. Proper. Took no liberties.” Ned yawned. “Robb spoke to Sansa afterward. He makes her very happy. Cat, I know you wanted to send her south, but after that business with Ormond Baratheon – ”

“I agree,” Cat said. “I agree. It’s settled, we’ll just smooth things over with Roose. Oh, Ned, it will be perfect, we’ll be able to see Sansa’s children, Ned, Robb’s babes can grow up near their cousins. Riverrun, it’s far, Edmure and Father, I miss them – ”

“I know, Cat.” Ned’s arm was strong and hard and warm. “To think, the Dreadfort. The first keep in the North with a permanent tiltyard. Well, outside White Harbor. But… the Dreadfort. It’s a new world, His Grace has made.” Cat could feel Ned’s chuckle in her toes. “What a world. My sister, the Queen of the Seven Kingdoms. A tiltyard at the Dreadfort. Roose Bolton with a southron wife. Next thing you know, the Greatjon will be commissioning a small Citadel outside Last Hearth – ”

Cat’s heart caught in her throat. “Ned! Roose Bolton’s wife! Cerenna Lannister – we need to write to Tywin Lannister! What if he already accepted our offer for Sansa and Ser Lancel?”

“He didn’t. Luwin showed me the letter. Ser Lancel has been betrothed to Margaery Tyrell.” Cat opened her mouth. “And before you ask about Quentyn Martell, Prince Doran wrote confirming his betrothal to Gwyneth Yronwood.”

Cat frowned. “If we didn’t have this Bolton match all but made, I’d be insulted. Three houses that makes, declining our Sansa. Ned – do you think something happened – before we called her back from court?”

“No,” Ned said. His tone was reassuring. “No, I don’t think so. Lya would have said something. Or His Grace. Hells, even Benjen or Aemon. I had no word of a sweetheart or a paramour. No, the way I heard it, the way Sansa told it, she spent most of her time with Lya and Benjen and Aemon. Jeyne Poole. The Ryswell girl and Manderly’s granddaughter. Alyssa and Jon. Sallei Whent.”

“We sent her there to make friends, Ned,” Cat said. “Friends her age. From outside the North, who aren’t already kin. I would have thought – Princess Daenerys, or Jocelyn Baratheon, or one of the Dornishwomen – ”

“Aye, well,” Ned said. “The way Lya tells it, the Stormlanders mostly keep to themselves. All but the Conningtons. And the Dornishwomen all left when Princess Rhaenys wed the Tyrell heir. Not many Reachers or Westermen in court these days.”

Cat sighed. “Sansa. I always thought she would do so well down south. It was – it was a shock to see that proven wrong – ”

“She’ll be happy, Cat. The Bolton boy will make her happy. Don’t worry, Cat.” Ned chuckled. “Tourneys and singing and pretty dresses. That’s what she wanted from the south, aye? The Bolton boy will give her everything she wants.”

“I hope so, Ned.” She opened her mouth again. “Ned, what if – ”

But her husband silenced her with another kiss.

///

_Rap rap rap rap rap rap RAP!_

Arya groaned and rolled over in the furs.

_Rap rap rap rap rap rap RAP!_

She pulled the pillow over her head to cover her ears. It was too early for a visitor to her chambers.

_Rap rap rap rap rap rap RAP!_

The visitor was persistent. _This will never stop if I just lie here._

Arya dragged herself out of bed and tugged on a dressing gown. “Who is it?” she yelled at the stupid wood of the door.

“Arya, it’s Sansa. May I come in?”

Sansa? What was Sansa doing here? Sansa never came to her chambers. They’d been at each other’s throats all before Sansa and Jeyne left for the capital, and after they came back, Sansa had been quiet. She hadn’t once joined Septa Mordane at shaming Arya for her “sloppy, half-hearted stitches”. Sansa mostly hung around Jeyne, speaking in whispers, and even went on rides with Arya and Mother sometimes, but she’d been quiet on the whole. Except for when that old singer and the Leech Lord’s son came to visit.

Arya slowly unbarred the door and pulled it open. Sansa was standing there in riding leathers and boots, cloaked for the windy autumn day.

Arya had to step back to look her in the eye. _Since when has Sansa been so tall?_ Sansa took that as an invitation to step inside. It hadn’t been, but Arya shut the door behind her anyway.

“Good morning, Sansa.” Arya frankly didn’t know what to say. _What do you want_ seemed rather rude. She scrunched up her face and wrinkled her nose.

“Good morning, Arya.” Sansa’s eyes were blue, but a kind blue, not a cold blue. A summer sky, not a winter one.

The silent moment passed, but the awkwardness did not. It seemed that Sansa did not know what to say either.

“Arya?”

“Sansa?”

Sansa pursed her lips. “Would you go riding with me?”

“This morning?” Sansa nodded. “You’ve already spoken to the guards?” Another nod. “I guess I’m stuck with you then.” Arya wrinkled her nose.

“If – if you don’t want, we don’t have to – ”

“No, it’s fine.” Arya opened her wardrobe and began throwing her leathers on the bed.

///

“Your horsemanship has gotten better.”

“Thank you. Aunt Lya likes to take her ladies riding on the Blackwater. She helped me improve.” Sansa paused. “I was wondering – if – if you could, that is, if you had time – ” Arya wasn’t sure if Sansa was blushing or if it was just the wind – “Would-you-be-able-to-help-me-with-mounted-archery?”

“Mounted archery? Are you any good with a bow? On solid ground?”

Sansa looked pointedly away. “No.”

“Shouldn’t you start there?”

“I ought to.” Sansa’s red plait was whipping behind her. “Do you have time?”

“I might. After my own training. For the tourney. For Aemon and Aemma.”

“You’ll compete?”

“Of course I will. Not for the prize, but for me. Aunt Lya wrote and said the ladies’ race around the Gods’ Eye is mine to win.”

“Prince Oberyn’s daughter Elia is a fine rider too, you know.”

“I’ll win.” Arya’s horse leapt over a branch. “You better not distract me. Why don’t you ask Theon – ”

But Sansa drew to an abrupt halt. “No – not Theon, I asked him, he said, ‘only if you climb in my lap and give me a kiss’ – and I couldn’t, I _couldn’t,_ Arya you _must_ understand – ”

“I do. That’s vile. I’m sorry.” She sniggered. “Theon’s stupid anyway. He’d probably try to squeeze your rump while you draw and throw off your shot. I’ll help you, Sansa, it’s fine.”

Sansa smiled at her then. _Has Sansa ever smiled so wide at me before?_ “Oh, Arya, thank you, _thank you,_ I’ll make it up to you, I promise, I’ll help you too, anything you want…”

If they weren’t in the middle of the Wolfswood, Arya was sure that her sister would have vaulted off the horse to give her a hug.

“Why do you want to learn mounted archery anyway?”

Sansa flushed red as a beet and pursed her lips. “Well… I… Dom loves to hunt, you see, and I said I would go with him…” _Of course. Stupid Sansa. It’s for Domeric Bolton. Of course. It wouldn’t be because Sansa wants to learn for herself. Or to spend time with me._

“Didn’t Aunt Lya take you hunting in the Kingswood?”

Sansa looked embarrassed. “She did, but, you know, it’s not usually… me… what I do, I stayed in the back with Jeyne and Wylla, Aunt Lya took Branna and Lady Jonelle ahead…”

“So you’ve talked yourself into a corner then.”

“I have.” Arya started to laugh.

“That’s stupid.”

“It was.”

“You must truly fancy him.”

“I don’t just _fancy_ him, Arya, I _love_ him, he’s _perfect_ , and – and – he _loves_ me too, he spoke to Father and everything – ”

“You’re to be a Bolton bride then? Wear his cloak of skin around your shoulders and stain your hands red with the blood of your enemies?”

In her mind Arya saw Sansa daintily licking blood from her fingers like juice from a berry tart, with Lady sticking her snout into the guts of a dead man. It was a funny picture.

Sansa ignored the last part. “That’s what we want, yes. If Mother and Father allow it. And Lord Bolton. Oh, Arya, think of it! I – I know you don’t want to marry, you could come stay with us, you could come hunt in the Dreadwood – ”

“Who says I don’t want to marry?”

Sansa’s head whirled around. “I – I – I’m sorry, Arya, I didn’t know, you just always said – ”

Arya shrugged. “I’ve changed. You’ve changed too. People change.”

“Yes. People change.” Arya whistled for Nymeria.

“You said I can have anything I want?”

“Anything.”

Arya chewed her lip. “Can you teach me how to turn a drawing into a garment? There is something I want. With mother’s new grey leather. The new White Harbor shipment.”

“I can,” Sansa said. “What do you want to make?”

“I don’t know what to call it. I’ll show you. I drew it.”

“All right.” Sansa smiled. “Arya?”

“Sansa?”

“What changed your mind? About getting married?”

“Can’t very well have my own keep if I’m not a woman wed. My own men-at-arms. My own life. Don’t want to be Arya Underfoot all the time, or Arya Overfoot. Stepping on Alys Karstark’s toes. Or getting my toes stepped on.”

“No.”

“Also, I want to know – ” Arya gestured with her hands.

“Arya!” The scandalized look on Sansa’s face could not be bought with silver or gold. Arya shrugged her shoulders.

“Don’t pretend you don’t wonder too.” Arya let go of the reins and brought her hands to her cheeks. The fingers of her leather gloves were cold against her skin. “ _Oh, Domeric, yes, Domeric, I love you, please, more – ”_

Sansa’s face was redder than her hair now. Arya started laughing, and miraculously, Sansa started to giggle too.

“Maybe,” she said, a hand covering her mouth. Then – “I’ll race you back to Winterfell.”

Arya grinned. “I’ll win!”

Arya won. When they handed their horses over to Harwin, both flushed and smelling of the sun, Sansa said something Arya never thought she’d ever hear.

“Arya?”

“Sansa?”

“I missed you. Sister.”

///

Luwin sneezed. The library tower was dusty. He shoved the large tome back in its place and noted its age, condition, and location in the shelves. He was proud of himself. He just knew he would complete his goal of completing a catalogue of the Winterfell collection before the turn of the century came.

“Gods bless you, Maester Luwin.”

He turned around. “Thank you, my lady.” Sansa Stark was standing at the end of the row of shelves. “Is there something I can help you with, my dear? Are you ill?”

She shook her head. “No, Maester Luwin.” Then she blushed. “I mean – no, I am not ill. But there is something you might help me with. Do you have a copper link?”

“A copper link? For history?” Sansa nodded. Luwin smiled. Sansa was always the best of the Stark children with histories. A bit too literal-minded when it came to interpreting texts, and much too eager to take each source as they came, but she had a good head for names, a good memory for facts. “Would you like to continue your studies, my dear?”

“Yes, maester.”

“That is very good of you.” Luwin exited the row of shelves and placed his catalogue on the table in the aisle. “Is there a particular period you have in mind?”

“The coming of the Andals,” Sansa said, “and their meetings with the First Men.”

Luwin’s face brightened. “Ah, now, come this way…”

When Luwin finished pulling out the tomes for his student to read, and marking them down in the ledger, Sansa pulled out a scroll. “Maester Luwin?” she said. “Could you send this?”

“Of course, my dear. Where to?”

“The Dreadfort.” Luwin found himself smiling again. _The Dreadfort, and the Bolton boy._ Domeric Bolton was a smart lad. He made good conversation during his short stay at Winterfell.

“I’ll see to it, my lady.”

“Thank you, Maester Luwin.”

///

Sansa met Luwin in his turret twice weekly for their advanced history lessons, and each and every time they met, there was a letter waiting for her from the Dreadfort, or a scroll she wanted to send. _Young love, so sweet._ Young Robb did not write half so much to Lady Alys.

One day Sansa showed up to his turret with what looked like a large tapestry. The leftmost portion showed a knight in red offering his sword to a thinner version of Lord Stark who sat on the great Throne of Winter with a direwolf at his feet. Then there was a great battle, where the red knight helped the direwolf slay a silver knight with the seven-pointed star on his breast. The middle portion showed the red knight, the thin Lord Stark, and the direwolf on a great ship, an impaled corpse on the prow and the sunset at their backs. The final portion depicted the red knight, the direwolf, and the thin Lord Stark standing on a hill together, watching a sept burn.

 _Lady Sansa has a fine hand for the gory details._ Luwin didn’t know whether to be impressed or disturbed.

“This is Theon Stark and Rogar the Huntsman?” Sansa nodded.

“What do you think, Maester Luwin?”

Luwin skimmed a hand over the stitchwork. “It is finely constructed. Gloriously detailed. Ah, but the armor, this plate came into fashion _after_ the First Men and the Andals came into friendlier contact, and this sept is in the style after Baelor…” Sansa looked cresetfallen for a moment. “But, my lady, it is very common to depict history in contemporary fashions. It helps the viewer make mental connections. I say, work well done.” _I saved myself. How could I make that girl frown?_

Sansa beamed. “Thank you, Maester Luwin.” She bit her lip. “Was there no bird for me today?”

“No, but – ” Sansa frowned again. _I should have said yes._ “But Lord and Lady Stark have some news for you. If you would follow me?”

Sansa nodded, packed up her tapestry, and followed him out of the turret.

///

Maester Luwin knocked on the door to Father’s solar. “My lord?”

“Enter,” came Father’s voice. Mother opened the door, and Maester Luwin went to stand next to Mother behind Father’s desk.

“Sansa,” Father said. “Sit.” She sat. “Do you know why you are here?”

Tendrils of dread crept into Sansa’s heart. _They’ve called it off,_ she panicked. _They read our letters, and they called it off. Or Father and Lord Bolton had a falling out. Or they found a better offer. For him or for me. They’ve called it off, and that’s why Dom didn’t write this week._

She felt her lower lip begin to quiver. _They can’t. They can’t. No, no, no! They can’t tear me away from Dom. I won’t have anyone else. He has a new brother, we can run away together, I’ll pack my things and flee on my horse tonight…_

She began to fidget and wring her hands together.

“Sansa,” Father said. “Sweet girl, fret not. It’s nothing bad. Would you like me to tell you the good news?”

Sansa nodded.

Mother broke in next. She was holding a pink-stamped scroll. “Sansa, dear,” she began, “we’ve finished the negotiations with Lord Bolton,” all the dread in Sansa’s heart flew away, “and set a date for your wedding.” Now Sansa was smiling so wide her cheeks hurt.

The corners of Father’s mouth tugged upward. “Your letter came on the same bird.” He handed her an unopened scroll. “You weren’t forgotten, sweetling.”

“Thank you, Father,” she said.

Mother spoke again. “There will be a feast,” she said. “To announce the betrothal. And a tourney.”

Sansa brightened. “A tourney?”

“Well, the same tourney for baby Randyll. At the Dreadfort. Most of the North will be there. And now half the Vale too.” Mother broke into a smile. “Does that please you, dear?”

Sansa nodded with vigor. “Yes, Mother. It pleases me.” She couldn’t have been more pleased. _Dom will win, Dom will win! He’ll crown me in hellebore and pink camellias and everyone will cheer when he gives me a kiss._ “And the wedding?”

“After Aemon and Aemma’s. No more than half a year.”

“That’s so soon!”

“Too soon?”

“No! Not too soon, I meant, I can have my cloak ready – ” but Mother only broke into another smile.

“Don’t worry, dear, we won’t delay it any longer.” Mother came around the desk to place her hands on either side of Sansa’s face. They were cool on her cheeks. “My sweet girl. I still have so much to tell you. Mothercraft, life as a woman wed…” Mother glanced at Father, who was looking pointedly away, “the art of love,” she whispered.

Sansa felt her face flame up. _They don’t know. They haven’t opened any of Dom’s letters. They don’t know what I know. What he wrote about. It’s all right._ “Yes, Mother,” she replied in the demurest voice she could muster.

“Come here, my girl,” Father broke in. Mother stepped away. “Tell me, Sansa, you are happy? With this match?”

“Yes, Father. I am happy.” She rose and gave him a hug. “Thank you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What's going on in this AU?
> 
> Robert's Rebellion was averted before the Battle of the Bells. Ashford and Summerhall may or may not have happened. Either way, Robert, Cersei, and Dorne are PISSED at the turn of events. Rhaegar took Lyanna as a second wife, Elia retreated to Sunspear, and Robert married Cersei. Robert is now the Bitter Storm. For their trouble, Rhaegar awarded the Baratheons his beloved Summerhall as a second seat, paid Lyanna's dowry to them (and more) to fund its restoration, and promised Aegon to Robert and Cersei's eldest daughter, Jocelyn. Jaime is still KG and is on Dragonstone, so all of Cersei's kids are Robert's. To heal the rift between the Stormlands and the Reach, Rhaegar wed Stannis to Janna Tyrell.
> 
> Jon Connington is still the Hand of the King. Aerys cut himself on the Iron Throne years and years ago, bled out, and died.
> 
> Littlefinger died of his wounds after his duel with Brandon, and Elbert was smashed the day that Brandon left for King's Landing, so he was alive to marry Lysa instead of Jon. Lysa gets her handsome gallant Vale knight and is happily married with seven children, Jasper, Aemma, Alyssa, Jon, Ronnel, Celia, and Artys. (Jon is who Sweetrobin would have been.)
> 
> Aemma is betrothed to Aemon, who is Jon Snow. Their wedding will be on the Isle of Faces in the year 300 AC to celebrate a jubilee anniversary of the Targaryen dynasty. It'll be a wild party... the Tourney of Harrenhal 2.0.
> 
> Tywin """asked""" Roose to send Ramsay to the Citadel as a pre-nuptial condition before his marriage to Cerenna. Maester Ramsay appears in Chapter 2, which is coming... eventually.
> 
> Tyrion also got shipped off to the Citadel, so Lancel is the heir to Casterly Rock.
> 
> Um let's see what else. The Tower of Joy never happened, so Willam Dustin is alive, and has at least one son with Barbrey, Willard.


	2. the second tourney at Harrenhal

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Domeric's cousins steal the book where he drafts his letters, and Ned learns of trouble brewing from Jon Arryn.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning, this is two parts fluffy crack and one part cracky politics. It's a silly AU, that's it.

“Will, you have to read this one - just look at it – _gods be good –_ Willard, I can’t – ”

“All right, all right, Robbie, calm down. It can’t be better than the last one – ”

Domeric stirred in his bedroll and tried to ignore the dawn light streaming through the bronze canvas of the Ryswell tent. It was easier to block out than his cousins’ voices. _I must have overslept. Those two are never up earlier than I am._ He sat up and opened his eyes.

Willard was near doubled over with laughter, clutching at his golden doublet. Robbie was sitting in a chair, face red as a weirwood leaf and rifling through _that_ book, small enough to fit in his cloak pocket, bound in red leather. “Oh – oh – ” Willard cleared his throat and took three calming breaths. “I can’t, Robert. I can’t do it. I can’t speak those words aloud. I’ll choke, aye? Who would have known? Robert. That stuff’s – it’s – downright _salacious_ , that is. Lewd. Profane. He must’ve broken, what, all the obscenity laws in the South, and whatever’s on the books in White Harbor? Who would have known? Domeric Bolton, chivalrous and chaste, more degenerate than either of us. Oh, Robert, what if we showed _Lord Stark –_ ”

_No._

Domeric stood up and spoke, injecting every ounce of cold rage he could muster into his voice. “Willard Dustin. Robert Ryswell. _Give that back or I will flay you both alive – ”_

Robbie’s head snapped in Domeric’s direction. “ _Fuck_! Will, he’s awake! _Run!”_

His two insufferable cousins scrambled out of the tent, taking the red book with them into the campgrounds outside Harrenhal. The dolts left the tent flap hanging open. _Idiots._

Reality dawned on him as he donned his finest clothes for the royal wedding. Was it possible for blood to freeze in your veins only a heartbeat after it had been boiling? _It’s my head if they show the red book to Lord Stark. My head, and Sansa’s honor. They’ll make her join the silent sisters…_

“You’re late for breakfast.” It was Uncle Roose.

“I’m not hungry.”

“Well, you’re competing in the tourney tomorrow. You have to eat. Come on, now.” Uncle Roose shoved him in the shoulder and sighed. “Listen. They told me. They’re willing to make a deal with you. They’ll give _it_ back to you. But only if you win the joust and split the winnings with them three ways. If you lose, they’ll burn it.”

 _I don’t want to burn it, I want to keep it._ “Fair.”

Uncle Roose sighed again as they made their way through Harrenhal’s postern gate. When he spoke again, it was with his sanctimonious ‘uncle’ voice. “I don’t know what possessed you to commit such things to paper. I swear, you’re as stupid as they are sometimes, you bunch of louts. Do you know how much trouble you’d be in if that stuff gets out? Near as much as they will be if they actually try to make the eight this week. _Only lords’ daughters_ , they said. _Only the finest pieces._ You’re lucky it was only them. That you didn’t leave it for someone else to find.” Robb Stark and Theon Greyjoy’s smug faces swam behind Domeric’s eyelids. _No._ “Even if you win, it’s for the best if you burn it. It’s – it’s _dangerous_ , don’t let _anyone_ catch you with that – ”

“I won’t. I’ll win.” The conversation was over.

///

“Is that true?”

“I wouldn’t lie to you, Alyssa,” Sansa said.

“A barbarian Thenn? From beyond the Wall? Stealing a highborn lady? It sounds absurd.” Her cousin’s eyes were bulging out in the way Aunt Lysa’s were wont to do sometimes. “I mean to say. The North, it seems so vast. On the map at least. The Mountain Clansmen in the Vale – they are all so very close by. And the Wall – you would think – Sansa, I just don’t understand.”

The two cousins were speaking in hushed tones _. Don’t talk about this openly,_ Mother had warned her _. The Night’s Watch is still working to find the Lady Alys, and your father and Lord Rickard want to salvage the betrothal. A year we must wait. It’s custom_. But Mother was not paying attention now. Up the table she and Aunt Lysa were busy discussing the wedding over breakfast.

“She was on an excursion to the Bay of Seals with her brothers,” Sansa whispered. “The Bay of Seals is very far North. And that close to the coast, the wildlings can sail around the Wall…”

“But they’re wildlings,” Alyssa said, shaking her head. Then her eyes grew furtive. “Do you think – Robb – he could marry me?”

Sansa couldn’t help but giggle. “No,” she said. “You know that. Robb’s betrothed must be Northern.”

“Speaking of Northern betrotheds,” Alyssa said, motioning with her porridge spoon. “Isn’t that yours over there?”

Sansa turned her head as quickly as a lady’s grace would allow. Dom was indeed over there. He had stopped at the segment of table where the Redforts were seated and was whispering into Ser Mychel’s ear. Alyssa must have waved to get the Redforts’ attention because Ser Mychel tapped Dom on the shoulder and he began to cross the Hall of a Hundred Hearths. The Stark family’s seats were nearest the high table, by the royal family and the Arryns. As a courtesy the nobility of the North and the Vale were given the places of highest honor and the Riverlands the next highest. The Westermen, the Reachers, the Stormlanders, and the Dornish sat in the back. Dom’s cousins began to laugh when he passed by their segment of the table, but his uncle Roose shut them up. When he passed by Robb and Theon a flash of anxiety passed across his face. It was gone in an instant, but she’d seen it. She caught his eyes and waved politely, and he gave her a half-hearted smile.

 _Something’s wrong._ She watched him greet Mother and Father, and Lord Jon, Uncle Elbert, and Aunt Lysa before helping himself to the Whents’ bounty. Once he began to eat his cheer began to grow. She asked him about his morning and he smiled when she put her hand on his knee. It relieved her. _Perhaps he was just hungry._

“My lady. I promise you another crown before the week is out. If I could beg your favor.” She was about to open her mouth when Alyssa interrupted her.

“Domeric Bolton, leave some for the rest of us,” her cousin crowed. “Jasper promised to crown me, and Sansa can’t _always_ be Queen of Love and Beauty - ”

“She can.”

“You’ll be tilting against Ser Arthur and Ser Barristan and Ser Jaime – ”

“Doesn’t matter. Pardon me, my lady.” He returned to his pease porridge but the flash of anxiety returned. _Something_ is _wrong._

“Dom?”

“My lady love.”

“You were trying to cut your pease porridge with a knife.” She ran a hand along his knee and he exhaled. “Don’t be nervous.”

“Aye.” He took a sip of lemon water and she took up his spoon.

“Here.”. Arya made a choking noise when she gave his spoon back, and Robb and Theon began to chuckle under their breaths. His eyes flicked towards them for a moment and he started to choke before clearing his throat and swallowing. There were beads of sweat building at his hairline. He took another sip of lemon water but the shifty energy hadn’t left his eyes.

She leaned into his ear to whisper. “My knight, you look unwell. If you are not up to riding there is no shame in pulling out – ”

“ _No_ ,” he said, and his gaze grew hard. “No. I will ride and I will win.” Then his face fell. “My lady, I am sorry, I should not have snapped at you so – ”

“That’s all right,” she said. “But if you would consent to see a maester, ser – ”

“Aye,” he said. “A maester. If you would walk with me.” He spoke to her, but it was Father to whom he looked. Father nodded. They were both done eating so they rose and she took his arm.

“Hello, Ser Daven,” she said, when they passed by the Lannister table. “Hello, Ser Lancel. Lady Margaery. Congratulations on your marriage.”

“Nephew. Lady Sansa. Thank you.” The Lannisters were so golden, and Lady Margaery was golden too. Her gown was damask embroidered with thread-of-gold, lions lounging in a rose garden. Hardly any green at all. Sansa wanted to stay and speak more but Dom seemed to be in a hurry and in no mood for conversation.

“Did you know, Sansa,” he said, once they’d left the hall and passed out of the keep. “That my brother Ramsay is a maester?”

“You’ve told me,” she said. “You write to him at the Citadel. About history.”

“Aye,” he said. “But now I’ll be writing to him here. He’s been assigned to Harrenhal, you see.”

“Is he here now?”

“I hope so. Last I heard, he was riding up the Kingsroad. I had a bird from King’s Landing. But that was some time ago.”

His Grace had commissioned the cleaning and reconstruction of the Tower of Ghosts. _The sept must be ready,_ he’d proclaimed, _for the Prince’s wedding._ His Grace had also imposed new taxes to fund the effort. _What a boon for the Whent family,_ some had whispered. _What a waste for the rest of us._ As they crossed the wards Sansa could see it gleaming black in the distance.

“Sansa,” Dom started. “About my letters – ” but his face flushed pink and he couldn’t finish his sentence.

“Your letters,” she said, and her face began to flame up too, and she thought of the dungeons beneath the Dreadfort. “It’s not – ought we talk about this out here – ”

He was looking at the path, and the flash of anxiety returned once more. Then he closed his eyes and exhaled. “No. You’re right. My lady. No we shouldn’t.”

The maesters had moved their supplies from their chambers in the Widow’s Tower to a tent near the tourney grounds, in case any harm should befall the knights at the tilts. The sun was so bright that through the large grey tent she could see silhouettes of men reclining on cots and robed maesters shuffling about. She could hear screaming.

“Should – ought I go in?” she asked. But one of the silhouettes, large and hulking, stilled for a moment and approached the tent flaps. She could hear his heavy footsteps in the dirt and the clink of his long maester’s chain. He must have seen their silhouettes too.

“Aye, aye, we have moon tea, just wait, we’ll make it up for you, we’ll be discreet about it, we won’t tell – ” but the tall and heavyset maester stopped dead in his tracks. He was tall and strong, but he was rather fleshy, and he had blotchy skin, wormy lips, and lank dark hair. _Those eyes are Dom’s_ , she realized. _That’s Dom’s brother. Ramsay Snow._ Ramsay’s chain was very long for one so young. It looped around his thick neck twice.

She felt her betrothed’s arm twitch in hers, which she let fall away. “Brother,” he said. “It has been too long.” They embraced tightly, clapped each other on the back, and broke apart. Dom scanned his brother up and down. “You’ve gotten fat,” he noted.

“Can’t call me brother anymore, Ser Bolton,” Ramsay said. “It’s just Maester Ramsay now.”

Dom started to laugh. “Maester Ramsay, then,” he said. “You’ve gotten fat.”

“And you haven’t gotten taller.” Maester Ramsay’s wormy lips curled upward in a smile. “Perhaps _I_ should have been the tourney knight, and you the maester.”

“It’s only two inches, lard-arse,” Dom said. But then he flushed pink again. “My lady. Pardon me – ”

Maester Ramsay seemed to remember she was there. “This must be your betrothed then. Lady Sansa. Hello.”

“Hello, Maester. I am pleased to make your acquaintance.”

Maester Ramsay’s wormy smile stretched across his face to reveal yellow teeth. Sansa gulped. Then his face grew serious and he cleared his throat. _His breath, it’s sickly sweet. It smells like cloves._ His voice was lower when he spoke again. “In my professional opinion. As a maester. Your wedding is very close. The moon tea. You can do without it. Call the child big or what have you. Tybald will take care of it. Too much of the stuff can damage the womb – ”

Sansa found her face flaming a second time that day. “Erm – maester – that’s not why we’re here – ”

“No?”

“No – Dom was out of sorts this morning, you see, and I wanted to make sure he was well enough to ride – ”

“Of course, of course, my lady,” Maester Ramsay said. He put his arm around Dom’s shoulder. “We’ll get him checked out and sorted straight. But – ” and here he smiled wide again – “you might not want to come inside. We are conducting an… operation of sorts. A hedge knight pierced his groin while training in the yard for the melee. Ask me how, I cannot answer. But. Not a sight fit for ladies’ eyes.”

“I understand, maester,” she said. “Goodbye, my knight.”

“Goodbye, my lady. I shall see you soon.” He smiled at her. _It’s fine,_ she knew. _It’s fine._ As she walked she could still hear them talking. The brothers of Bolton. “Is that link Valyrian steel?”

“Mayhaps – ”

“Tell me about it?”

“I don’t think so. Maester’s secrets...”

///

“So you’re telling me all this is about a book that you shouldn’t have written, that your cousins are willing to destroy, but that you want to keep anyway? It sounds to me you’d be better served to lose.” Ramsay had taken him to a curtained-off section of the grey maesters’ tent. On the other side he could hear screaming.

His palms were sweating and the clammy damp felt piteous on his face. “No. No. Ramsay. You _must_ understand. I can’t – that book. It’s not just – just – _filth_ , you know – it’s – it’s _everything,_ I draft my poetry there, all my clean correspondence there – ideas I get for new music – I have to keep it. I have to keep it.” He looked at his brother with pleading eyes. “Brother – help me…”

“All right. That’s that. Now. I am a maester. I did swear vows, but then again, so did you. _Do no harm. You are charged to be just_. Pick your poison, then. Nothing lethal, I’m telling you, I want no part in that. But. Vomiting? Chills? Trapped in the privy? What do you want? I have a girl in the scullery, won’t be too hard – ”

“No – no – none of that – ”

“None of that? I thought you wanted to win – ”

“I do want to win. I _have_ to win. But. Something just for _me_ – ”

“Ah. Something just for _you_. All right. That’s not as bad, I think. Less effective, but not as bad. Ethically.”

“Aye.”

“I think – I think I know – ” Ramsay disappeared behind the curtain and came back a while later with a few jars of oil, a few tins of powder, a bowl, a vial and a tray. He spooned the oils and powders into the bowl and poured the mixture into the vial. “This. Three drops. Every morning. Before you have any food. It will enhance your performance.”

Domeric scowled. “What’s in it?”

“It’s better if you don’t know.”

///

“Beautiful wedding that was, Ned.”

“Aye. Lya and Lysa did a fine job. And Lady Shella of course.” It was good to talk to Jon again. But Jon was an Arryn and had an appreciation for formality. “Pardon. Her Grace and Lady Arryn.”

Jon guffawed and coughed into his napkin. “Better, better, my boy. Quite right. You almost can’t tell it’s the same castle.”

“Aye.” It was not the Harrenhal he remembered from all those years ago. Half the castle had been much improved. _But Jon’s health has worsened,_ he thought. “Jon, are you all right – ”

But Jon waved him off. “Come off it, come off it,” he said. “I’m an old man. Old bones, old lungs. Older than I’ve any right to be. Ned, I was old when I met you. I’ve got to go some time. Give Elbert something to do.”

“Aye.” But he still didn’t like it. “Jon – ”

Jon lowered his voice and cleared his throat. “Walk with me, Ned. I’ve had enough of this feast. Too much food, inflames the old gut.”

“Of course, Jon.” They rose. Lysa was dancing with Jasper, and Elbert with Alyssa. Cat was dancing with her uncle Brynden. Ser Donnel Waynwood had been named the new Knight of the Gate, and the Blackfish was now free to swim where he liked. The bride and groom were spinning together at the center of the hall.

“It always strikes me how much Aemma looks like your Sansa, Ned.”

“Aye, Jon. Uncanny, that is.”

“Look at them. Aemma and Aemon. They look like you and Cat.” Jon’s eyes narrowed as they walked. “And there…”

“Aye. I see it.” It made Ned’s brow rise halfway to his hairline. _Arya and the Baratheon boy?_ He looked around for Robert, but he could not find his onetime friend. Instead his eyes fixed on Robb dancing with the Princess Daenerys. _Let him have his fun,_ Ned thought. _His life could change so much in the coming moons. My son ought enjoy himself._

As they passed out of the hall Ned caught sight of his eldest daughter and her betrothed in a cloistered courtyard. Young Bolton was playing the harp and Sansa looked entranced. Sitting at Sansa’s feet was Bran, his nose in a book. _Their chaperone,_ he chuckled inwardly. At Sansa’s betrothal tourney he’d spoken to Young Bolton about the need to nip Bran’s climbing in the bud. _Please don’t encourage him. It makes my wife worry. You will understand some day._ Thankfully Young Bolton had been compliant. _Of course, my lord._ Not two nights later Ned had found Bran’s nose in a history book in the Dreadfort library. _Ser Domeric says that a knight ought to be a gentleman and a scholar._ And climbing? _Father, you and Mother forbid it, and I shall obey. Obedience and humility are knightly virtues._

“Just sublime, Young Bolton’s singing,” Jon said. “I say. I think he might just win. His Grace won after he sang for us, after all. All those years ago.”

“It will be a contest.”

Jon had led him to an empty cloister in the Widow’s Tower, far away from the feasters. A part of the castle that remained the Harrenhal of old. In the night breeze he could almost hear the dead old widows wailing, the shadows creeping forward like stalking ghosts. “Ned. About my son. Your brother.”

“Aye.”

“What did you see at the feast tonight?”

“Truth be told, Jon, I was not looking for him. I did not think he would see me.”

Jon sighed. “Ned.” His foster father looked up at the moon, and an owl passed across its face. In the light Jon seemed so very old. “You stay up there in your cold Northern country, far away from the affairs of the rest of the Seven Kingdoms. Ned. I say this because I love you. I love these Seven Kingdoms. War is coming, Ned. I feel it in my bones.” Jon looked up at the moon. “There are those who do not like this new world His Grace has made. His reforms. Too much investment in the North, some say. Too much investment in the Riverlands. In the Vale, I hear mutterings, but – ” and here Jon looked around – “they say Prince Aegon and Lady Jocelyn are ill-suited. That they mislike each other as much as Duncan and Lady Stanna did, not sixty years ago. There are some who would see our Aemma queen. To send their daughters and their sisters to her, to whisper in her ear. To send their sons to befriend young Aemon. To have His Grace’s work undone.”

“Jon…” but Jon was looking at the moon again, and it seemed he did not hear.

“The stag and the lion dance in the rose garden, under the bright, hot sun. War is coming, Ned. The southern south against the North. For the Crown _._ ” Now Jon turned to look at him with old and rheumy eyes. “You did not see Robert at the feast. At least not after the first course. Tell me, Ned – did you see Tywin Lannister? Did you see Mace Tyrell? Prince Oberyn?”

Ned couldn’t remember. “Jon – surely. Some way. This can be averted. I have another daughter, I have two more sons, Lysa and Elbert many more, Edmure will have some soon. Jon – you were the one who saw. Arya and Ser Ormond. Many matches can be made. Surely we can save this peace – ”

But Jon shook his head. “It was just a dance, Ned. Anyone can dance. The grief in Dorne, it runs deep. Tywin Lannister, his pride runs high. You know he always wanted his Cersei for Rhaegar. The Tyrells, they are always – well. _Growing Strong._ You know. And Robert. You know Robert.” And then his foster father sighed. “This peace has been my work. His Grace’s work. And I fear it shall die with me.”

///

She pulled the knot tight around his arm. The pink and grey silk was so fine that it slipped against her fingers, but thankfully the stitching gave the favor purchase. It was old. He wore it every time he rode in a tourney now, and he always gave it back to her to give to him again. “There, my knight,” she said, and she smiled. When she’d made it, it had been pink and white, but still the colors shone bright enough against the black plate below.

“Thank you, my lady,” he said. Then he looked around, and her gaze followed his. In the tent the Ryswells had set up by the tiltyard for the Northmen to don their armor all other eyes were elsewhere. Wylla Manderly was whispering into Daryn Hornwood’s ear, and one of the Greatjon’s daughters was tying a favor around a Karstark’s arm. She could hear Bran chattering with the other squires as they saw to the tourney shields.

“I would beg another favor of you,” he said softly. All his skittishness from the morning prior was gone. _He’s fine to ride,_ she thought. _He’s fine._ In his eyes she saw only calm confidence. No, not _only._ Something else swirled there, like the dark spots on the moon. Something like she’d seen in Maester Ramsay’s face. But she could look no more, for he seized her forward and kissed her on the open mouth. It lasted for only an instant but she felt it buzz like a swarm of bees all the way down to the tips of her toes. He pulled away grinning wickedly. “There now,” he said, softer still. “Now I shall surely win. Goodbye, my lady. We’ll be starting soon.”

“Yes,” she said, and he walked off to go find Bran. She made to leave the tent for the marquee with flames in her face. _He never does that. Not for everyone to see._ She thought she heard Dom’s cousins Robert and Ser Willard laughing.

It was all very strange.

She took her seat next to Mother and Father in their box. “Your sister won the race around the Gods’ Eye,” Mother commented.

“We are all very proud,” Sansa said. She scanned the tiltyard as Mother spoke about what Arya meant for her winnings. _It’s dry. It’s safe. He’ll be all right._ Dom was always all right, but today he was acting strange.

She said a quiet prayer to the Warrior, and to the old gods too. _He will be all right._

Then came the blare of trumpets, the herald and his shouts. “Robb Stark,” the herald called. “Ser Hosteen Frey.”

Robb and Ser Hosteen trotted out and took their stations.

“Sansa, do you see that?” Mother said. She was squinting. She was scowling.

“I do,” Sansa said.

“Black and lavender,” Mother said. “Sansa. Black and lavender. Who does that belong to – ”

“Erm. House Farring is white and purple. House Mallery is white and purple. House Hasty and House Swygert, white on purple. House Belmore is silver on purple. House Brax, purple on white. House Plumm, purple on gold. House Mallister, silver on purple. House Woolfield and House Locke, white on purple. House Dondarrion, purple on black.” Then she remembered. “House Fenn. House Fenn is black on purple – ”

“Sansa, there are no crannogmen here,” Mother said. “There are no Fenns. Sansa. Do you know any Dondarrion ladies? But the color isn’t right. That’s _purple_ , not _lavender – ”_

“House Dayne. White on _lilac –_ ”

A shout went up. “Robb won.”

“Yes.” Mother was clapping but she was not smiling. “Yes. Robb won.”

Arya came back, washed and fresh, in a grey gown and her victor’s laurels. “Congratulations, Arya,” she said.

“Thank you.” Arya looked down at the tiltyard. Roose Ryswell was in the process of unhorsing a knight from Old Oak. “It was the horse. The Ryswell red.”

“Better than a Dornish sand steed?”

“Aye.”

“I’m sure you had some part in it.”

“Some.”

“Lord Rodrik’s granddaughters have Ryswell reds too, you know.”

“Yes, but the part that beat _them_ was the part that won. We passed by Lady Elia easy.”

They watched more tilts as day bled into evening. Dom won against Lord Jon Fossoway and Ser Damon Sand from Godsgrace.

“He’s up again,” Arya said. “There. By the station on the right. Just listen.”

Arya was right. “Ser Domeric Bolton,” the herald shouted. “Ser Arthur Dayne!”

“Oh _no_ ,” Sansa said. “Oh no. Oh no – ”

“He’ll be fine, Sansa. Let go of my hand – ”

“I can’t watch – ”

“Yes you can. You’ll watch or I’ll pry your eyes open.”

She watched. It took seven tilts but he won, and the Northern box all stood and cheered and hooted. He tipped up his visor and flashed her a smile.

_He’s all right. He’s all right._

He did a victory lap around the field for show.

_He never does that._

He was acting strange.

///

“Ned, you know, I told you. I think Young Bolton might just win.”

“You didn’t put any coin on it, Jon.”

“Bah. You know me, Ned. Not one for betting. The Seven hate it, and all that. And I hate to lose my coin.”

“Of course.” Then Ned frowned. “It will be a competition. Jasper is a fine lance – ”

“He is, but I’ve seen enough squire’s tourneys at the Gates of the Moon to know Domeric Bolton is a finer one. Dear Alyssa will have to wait until we have a tourney back home.”

“Prince Aegon and Ser Jaime are formidable opponents.”

“They rigged the lists for Prince Aegon. You saw Ser Ormond and Ser Loras throw their tilts – ”

“Ser Jaime, then.”

But the gold-haired knight in white fell after ten tilts and six shattered shields. “Well met!” he shouted, after he rose from the ground and dusted himself off. Young Bolton dismounted to shake Ser Jaime’s hand, lifted his visor to greet Ned’s daughter, and did his victory lap.

“Ned. What did I tell you – ”

“I believe you once told me that you were always right, Jon.”

The attendants swept up the dirt to make it flat and ready for the next combatants. Out of the corner of his eye, Ned could see Cat scrunching up her face at their eldest boy. _Let Robb have his fun, Cat. The Watch cannot take the Valley of the Thenns without breaking itself. We’ll find our son another match._ He’d have to tell her about the Lord Commander’s letter.

Next to Cat, Sansa was glowing, and Arya was whispering in her ear. _My daughters,_ he thought fondly. _As different as the sun and moon, but the lights of my life all the same._ After they had quarreled so much as girls it was so good to see them close.

“Ser Jasper Arryn,” called the herald. “Prince Aegon Targaryen!”

Jasper, atop his pure white stallion, with his silver armor filigreed in sky blue enamel and his sister’s sky-blue favor around his arm, looked every part the Young Falcon, but for his cloak. _Sky blue wool and pure white feathers,_ Lysa had explained, a mother’s love in her voice and in her eyes. _I made it for him._

 _He looks like a Summer Islander,_ Ned had thought. _He looks absurd._ But then again, Lysa had always been a tad moony.

Prince Aegon’s armor was black plate, a red dragon crest atop his helm. There on his chest gleamed the three-headed Targaryen dragon, but his rondels and his pauldrons and the fastenings of his red greatcloak bore Martell suns, and his steed was black as death.

His nephew and the prince took their stations at the edge of the field. They charged with a gallop and met with a clash, and a brown cloud of dust rose to obscure the loud and heavy fall of a fully-armored body.

A gasp went up, and then all was silent.

“Gods be good,” Jon breathed, clutching at the crystal star around his neck. _Jon. My second father. You cannot die of apoplexy. Not now._ Ned gripped his shoulder. “Jasper. Jasper. My boy. What have you done?”

But as soon as Jasper reached the end of the field he leapt off his white horse and ran to the motionless black form lying supine on the ground. He threw away his gauntlets and thrust off his helm to reveal shaking hands, sweat-slick blonde hair, and blue eyes that had just come to know terror.

“My prince!” he shouted. Jasper helped Prince Aegon up to a sitting position, and then the black-helmed head began to nod. With his own strength the crown prince lifted his arm, waved, and brought himself to his feet, and the crowd cheered again.

Still it did not stop the maesters from swarming and carrying the prince away on a cot. Young Aegon waved the whole while.

“Thank the gods,” Jon breathed. There was terror in those blue eyes too. “ _Thank the gods.”_ Then Jon dipped his head and started saying the Mother’s litany, and he spoke to Ned no more.

Next to him Cat sat, back straight, mouth in a thin line, her eyes on Lysa. Lysa and Elbert were holding each other’s hands, knuckles white. Alyssa was covering her mouth, and young Jon had an arm around her shoulder. He could not see the royal box but he knew it must have been worse.

The crowd slowly began to find its voice again. _Hushed mutters, harsh words._ There was no cheering when the finalists were called.

The final joust ended like the last, in one tilt, and the applause was half-hearted.

“He threw it,” Ned heard Arya say.

“He was shaken,” he heard Robb say. “I would be shaken too.”

It took the wind out of Young Bolton’s sails. He only rode far enough around the field to be named champion and collect the crown and his winnings from the king.

As Young Bolton placed the white roses atop Sansa’s head, Ned saw him whisper in her ear. She nodded and he rode away.

///

“You won,” Robbie said. His normal mirth was much attenuated. _Grim. So grim, that was._

“I did,” he said. His voice came out hollow. The energetic buzz Ramsay’s concoction had left on his lips was fading. _I could have done it on my own but I needed to be sure._ _I’ll have to thank Ramsay. Give him all my winnings. I want it not, for I did not win at all._

“Your book. We’ll put it in your things,” Willard said. _Tell me Will, was that fun? Was it worth it?_

“Aye.” _I’ll never let it out of my sight again._

“Three thousand dragons each. Quite the sum. What are you going to do with yours, Willard?”

“I don’t know – ”

“Get out, you louts,” he said. “Get out before my squire gets here.”

“We have to count the coins, Dom – ”

“We’ll do it in the tent.” He just wanted to breathe _. How dishonorable that whole thing was._

“Thank you.” They left, but they were laughing.

His squire came in a while later, and Domeric smiled. “Bran. Hello.”

“Hello, ser!” The boy never failed to brighten his mood. Enthusiastic about everything, eager to learn. _I’ll miss him when he leaves for Riverrun._ Bran began to relieve Domeric of his armor, piece by piece. “What a showing!”

“Aye, Bran, thank you.” _Don’t look at me like that. Don’t smile at me like that. I don’t deserve it. Please._ But Bran didn’t notice, and he kept on chattering away.

“Ser, my lady sister is outside, I think.” He could see it – Sansa’s shadow. _She’ll know. She’ll know. She’ll know I’m out of sorts. She’ll ask me why and she’ll find out why and she’ll be horrified I let this happen._

“Bran?”

“Ser?”

“Would you hand me the bottle underneath my old clothes?”

“Aye, ser!”

“And the red book?”

“And the red book!”

///

At the feast they sat together at the king’s table, and Dom was still acting strange. Every so often he’d seize her chin and kiss her for all the hall to see. _Too much wine,_ she’d thought, but she’d hardly seen him drink at all. In the heat of a hundred fires the white rose petals wilted and drifted down her hair, but still the drunken feasters found it in themselves to roar.

Each kiss left her tongue buzzing, her feet tapping, her face a little less purple. _Mother can’t frown at this. Not while Aunt Lya and His Grace are clapping. And Prince Aegon too._ The crown prince had a ripe bump sticking out of his silver hair, but his indigo eyes were bright, his white smile brighter. _A nasty fall,_ Robb called it. _Thank the gods that he’s all right._

“My lady,” Dom said. “Shall we dance, my lady? I will not sing tonight.” She nodded and took his arm. They spun to _The False and the Fair_ and _Bessa the Barmaid._ His hands were so warm. His smile was so warm. _He_ was so warm.

He kissed her again and the buzzing was back. Then he looked around. Father was speaking to Uncle Jon again, and Mother was dancing with Robb. _So he doesn’t dance with anyone else,_ Arya had said. _At least not overmuch._ Arya herself was nowhere to be found, and Bran was off to bed.

“Come with me.”

///

She found the red book in the pockets of his cloak. _Don’t, don’t, don’t, those are just drafts, it’s not all finished yet -_

“What’s this?” She opened it and as she flipped the pages her eyes grew wide. “Oh – ”

“My lady. _Sansa_ – ”

But she flipped to the end and only smiled.

///

The night fog had lifted, and the air was fresh with dew. Better than the smell of horses. _White,_ she told herself. _Look for the white. The larger one. It’s not far._

It wasn’t.

 _Dainty like a lady,_ she told herself, as she pushed aside the tent flap. _Slowly, graceful. Quiet._ They didn’t hear. Bran was in his pallet, curled up in a ball, a book open next to his tousled copper head. Robb had drawn up the blankets over himself and piled his pallet with pillows.

Arya was nowhere to be found.

She stepped over to her pallet and laid her gown at its foot. _Fold it neatly. I always fold it neatly._ _Quiet and no creaking._

Through the white canvas she watched the pre-dawn black fade to grey, and as she breathed she knew the fog had descended again. _Morning._ The light grew behind the tent wall and her heart began to pound, and then a shadow appeared. A silhouette. _Footsteps. Those are footsteps. It’s Mother –_

But the figure in the tent flap was small, and hooded, and dark, and it had Arya’s hand, and it curled up in Arya’s pallet.

“Don’t tell Mother,” Arya said. She nodded in assent.

Robb began to stir, and Arya froze. Then Robb’s face appeared, and his blue eyes narrowed, and his voice was stern. “Don’t tell Mother.”

There was a girl, and she clutched a lavender gown. Her cloak was dark, but her hair was white. Sansa saw it peeking out of the girl’s hood as she crept away, out of sight, into the morning.

“Don’t tell Mother.”

///

“Fine food, the Heddle family serves. Fine establishment, this Inn at the Crossroads. I always appreciate coming here. A shame to leave you all, though. What a week this has been. What say you, Ned?”

“Aye. What a week. A shame to leave.” He scanned the table. The Tully siblings were bidding each other goodbye, and his children, their cousins. He’d already had his share of hard farewells. _Lya and Benjen. I’ll miss them._ How sweet it was to see their faces. How bitter it was to ride away.

He looked at Jon, grey hair going white, solid form starting to stoop, doublet growing loose. Rheumy blue eyes. _Strong, but old, and coughing. Jon. Will this be our last goodbye?_

He didn’t want to go. _We’ll change our plans,_ he thought. _We’ll ride east up the High Road instead of North. We’ll sail from Gulltown. We’ll spend more time with Jon._

_Lysa and Elbert too, and the children. Aye, it will make Cat smile._

He should have planned it this way in the first place.

Jon was helping himself to some more pease porridge when a grey shadow appeared overhead.

“Ah. Colemon. Good morning. A bit early for a tincture, don’t you think?”

“I – yes, my lord. Too early. But – there was a bird. From Harrenhal.” He handed it to Jon.

 _The royal seal,_ Ned thought. Jon broke it, unrolled the parchment, and closed his eyes, and sighed. _He must have aged another ten years._

“Jon?”

“Ned. The prince is dead. Prince Aegon.” Jon gripped the crystal star around his neck and made the sign of the star. “Seven help us.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm really sorry for killing Aegon without characterizing him at all. He didn't deserve it :/ And I know Ramsay is OOC but let's say in this AU that he got sent to the Dreadfort right after Bethany died/before Domeric went to Barrowton as a page and they became friends.
> 
> There were things that I wanted to include in this chapter that I couldn't make flow. Namely, Domeric and Mychel going to an irate Robert Baratheon and Mychel asking to marry his daughter. Bobby B would have said, "My daughter is marrying the crown prince of the Seven Kingdoms," and Mychel would have been embarrassed, because he meant Mya.
> 
> Jon and Ned's first conversation was originally going to take place in a Hogwarts-style boat on the Gods' Eye from the Isle of Faces but that setting didn't allow as many other character details to be thrown in. Let's say Aemma and Aemon had that second heart tree wedding for the Northerners, we just didn't see it.
> 
> This ended on a cliffhanger and for that I apologize. Even I don't know how this would end.


End file.
